What We Have Common
by Ghostcat3000
Summary: Weevil Navarro, his incredibly poor choice of a research paper prepping locale and the close talking, finger waving jackass that interrupts and effectively hijacks his night. Set two years after The Bitch is Back.


**Rated T (plus) for competitive flirting, language, general sauciness, violence, Logan being Logan.**

**This story is set two years after the events of the Season Three finale, The Bitch is Back. Probably AU but we'll see just how drastically after the movie comes out.**

**Chapter 1 of 3**

**Part 4 of a longer series, All Things Go, based on a playlist of song prompts. "Poetic Justice (feat. Drake)" by Kendrick Lamar is the prompt for this one. Works as a one-shot.**

**I do not own these characters, they belong to RT.**

**As always, Blithers, saves my bacon by being a brilliant beta. Thank you, you are wonderful.**

**The sentence that Weevil reads over and over again is from The Last Tower by Ben Austin.**

**Please review. Thanks!**

******UPDATE: I AM NO LONGER PUBLISHING ON DUE TO RATINGS CONCERNS. I WILL CONTINUE UPDATING ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN (AO3) UNDER GHOSTCAT.**

* * *

His thumb is on his tongue and then it's on the page, turning it, 67 left. He groans internally and rubs his eyes. He had almost beaten it. The voice in his head telling him he is gonna fuck up and flunk because he is a stupid, ignorant loser. The one that says you don't even belong here, reading a chapter entitled "Failures in the History of Public Housing in America" in some college bar packed full of dumb, happy kids who have two point five parents paying for their education, sending them off to Aspen over the break to do white people shit, like drinking cappuccinos and skiing. _He_ had a paper to write, the school library was closed and the only thing he was going to be seeing over the break were his responsibilities, the ones that talked and the ones that didn't.

Why are you even doing this? Go have a beer with your friends. Sex up a hot girl. Not this. It's not for you, homie. Not one bit of it. It's Friday night.

But things change. So he says fuck that noise to that noise. He is doing great in his classes and he is going to kill on this assignment.

That's when someone slips into his booth and slides a shot his way. He grimaces and looks up, only to see Logan fucking Echolls smiling at him with that stupid face of his.

"Fancy seeing you here, Pedro Picapiedra," he drawls, popping all his p's with relish. "It's been a while." Smarmy little fuck.

"Am I supposed to know who that is?"

"Sure, didn't your abuela let you watch the funnies on Saturdays? Oh wait." He stops and covers his mouth with his hand. "That's right, you probably didn't have a TV!" He makes a screen with his fingers, shakes his head in a questioning no. "Shoot. My bad. Didn't mean to rub your nose in it."

This is an old routine and there is comfort in it. And just like old times, Weevil Navarro wants to greet Logan Echolls the way he should always be greeted: by giving him a good, hard punch in the face. He looks around slowly to gauge whether or not he can pop him an undetected quick one, something fast, elbow to nose would do, good for a nosebleed, but there's too many eyes. He looks back at Echolls and forces himself to smile. Echolls nods and grins back, his beady little eyes sparkling with enjoyment, like he'd just read his mind.

"Don't worry Weevs, the night is young. Play nice and you might just get your wish." He flutters his eyelashes and clinks his shot glass, knocking his drink back. He gestures towards the shot. "Come on. Chin, chin. Drink up."

Weevil takes the drink and downs it, welcoming the warmth of it with a lick of his lips, then pointedly goes back to reading. Echolls laughs.

"Someone never read their Emilia Postalez. This is the part where you say, 'Thank you, Logan for buying me a top shelf shot. It was very thoughtful of you.'"

Weevil smirks, says nothing, keeps his eyes on the page. He's not really reading, he's stuck on a single sentence. _The scary "Cabrini-Green" vision of project life certainly plays some part in the now widespread sentiment that public-housing residents are undeserving of government "handouts."_ Eventually, the sentence becomes a word - _undeserving_. _Undeserving_. _Undeserving_. He wonders how long he can fake it before Echolls leaves him alone. _Undeserve_. _Deserve_. _Serve_. The bastard laughs, stretching out his legs until his feet are on the booth cushion next to him, moving them back and forth like sneakered windshield wipers. He's not going anywhere. Weevil sighs, rolls his shoulders, closes his book.

"Attaboy." Echolls smiles and holds two fingers up in the air. The waitress at the bar sees the gesture and starts pouring another round of the good stuff.

* * *

Maybe all that was needed to sit with Logan Echolls at a bar and not slam his head onto the table were two shots of excellent tequila. Either that or this is some crazy Twilight Zone shit of the highest order because he's spent the last twenty minutes talking about his current class schedule with arguably the biggest asshole he's ever met in his life and it's been violence-free. That can't hold. What was that poem they talked about in his English class… The one about the center not holding? Blood, tides, anarchy and more fucking blood? Yeah, that's right. Yeats. Echolls is a poem about the apocalypse. Weird as fuck metaphor. Wouldn't really fly as subject material for a paper, there wasn't anything to argue or prove. But it would make sense to him. He had a lot of things like that. Proving shit wasn't his forte, but he _felt_ it and if there was one thing about college that depressed him above everything else, it was that. It wasn't enough to feel it or know, you had to _explain_ and he resented it. Couldn't say why.

"So what… at the rate you're going, you'll be graduating in 2013. Perfect timing, Weevs. Just in time for the Mayan Apocalypse. You probably planned it that way, huh?"

Weevil ignores the crack. It was weak, usually homeboy's better at the classist meets racist repartee.

"Not 2013. Not that long. Maybe sooner. Depends."

"On what?"

"On the boys getting jobs, paying their way, staying out of trouble."

Echolls fiddles with a coin and throws it up in the air. It lands loud on the table, between the wet rings left by their drinks, tails up. He clears his throat.

"Heard about your grandma."

"Yeah." Weevil eyes him carefully. "The flowers were nice. You pick 'em out yo'self?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Weevil knows this game. Echolls stares at him impassively. Fine. He'll let it pass.

"You read about the lawsuit, right?"

Echolls makes a non-committal gesture, lifting his shoulder slightly, like he's rolling it, and Weevil takes that as a yes.

"So the hospital settled?"

"Yeah. They knew they didn't have a chance. It was right there in the paperwork. A two decimal point mistake."

Echolls opens his mouth to say something but appears to think better of it. Weevil can read a useless sorry from a mile away, so he nods, and raises his empty pint glass.

"Thank you, Neptune General. For killing my grandma and getting me a house."

Weevil laughs. It's bitter but not forced. He has to laugh because it's fucking awful and any other response would be too much, like, hand meets glass, break and blood, _too much_. He looks up at Echolls expecting something else, confusion, distaste, something, but he's just nodding and running his finger around the rim of his shot glass. He puts his finger in his mouth and pulls it out with a pop.

"So where are the kids tonight, Seňor Mom? Attending the Hogwarts equivalent for gangbanging?"

Weevil snorts.

"My cousin Estrella in San Diego takes them every other weekend so I can have the place to myself, catch up on schoolwork, entertain. They're teenagers. Old enough to take care of themselves but young enough to still need a guiding hand. You know what I'm talking about."

"No. Not really," he says blandly. "Your cousin… she hot?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Echolls laughs shortly, leans back and looks around the bar.

"I need to get laid."

"Thanks for sharing."

Fuckface tilts his head and narrows his eyes at him.

"So do you from the looks of things. And something tells me you'll be a better wingman than Dick."

He ain't wrong, on either count. Weevil licks his lips.

"I don't do tag teams. This ain't a buddy movie. Besides, you might fuck up my game."

"Listen paco, I _am_ game." Echolls glances around some more. "Ah. And there we have it. Hold down the fort, I'll be right back."

Echolls raps on the table with his knuckles, two quick knocks, and slinks off. Weevil rubs his face and considers making a run for it while White Boy's occupied with his poontang search. He eyes the back entrance, alarm is off, all clear. Just as he's about to bust out, books all packed away, Mr. Pain in the Ass is back, arms around two women. One busty redhead with wide, smiling lips, the other a dark eyed brunette in a rock t-shirt, both crazy fine.

"Going somewhere?" Echolls raises his eyebrows. Weevil has to hand it to him, dude worked quick.

"Yeah, going to the bar to see what I can get these ladies."

One giggles, a warm, rushing sound, and the other smiles sardonically. Echolls gives him an okay sign with his fingers, acknowledging the smooth. Damn straight.

"Lemon Drop, please," says the redhead, all dimples, freckles and curves.

"And for you?" he asks gorgeous number two, the dark princess with the… is that a tattoo creeping around her neck? Leaves? No. Thorns.

"Cranberry and soda, no ice. Thanks."

Weevil raises his eyebrow and smiles. Nice. Very nice.


End file.
